


Hope Springs Eternal

by AFixerMuse



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Awkward Romance, Chance Meetings, Character Death, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fade Dreams, Fluff and Angst, Healing, Hope, Hopeful Ending, In the Fade, Interspecies Romance, Multi, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition - Trespasser DLC, Rebirth, Reconciliation, Romantic Angst, Romantic Fluff, Romantic Friendship, Slow Burn, Slow Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-16 19:09:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29580750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AFixerMuse/pseuds/AFixerMuse
Summary: To heal from his betrayal, she created a safe place in her dreams; a retreat from the daily reminders of his absence. When a kindly spirit assumes his form, Serilda is forced to acknowledge past pains as she reconciles current reality. Unbeknownst to her, Fen'Harel soon becomes aware of her presence in a corner of the Fade, as well as these frequent visits made by a spirit in his guise, and curiosity bids him draw near. The unabashed hope he discovers in her carefully constructed glade both challenges and tempts him, leading him to ask an overwhelming question: will he be Solas for her, or forever Fen'Harel?
Relationships: Female Adaar/Cullen Rutherford, Solas/Skyhold Surgeon (Dragon Age)
Kudos: 6
Collections: Coming to Fruition





	1. How It All Began

**Author's Note:**

> In a previous series featuring an Adaar/Rutherford pairing, I gave a non-canon background to the Skyhold surgeon (Anderfels origin) and hinted at the development of a frenemy to something else entirely developing between Solas and the surgeon, to the degree that she is devastated when he disappears and is haunted in her dreams after his betrayal of the Inquisition. This picks up after joining Adaar and Rutherford on their farm, now a retreat for Templar veterans, and works as one of the resident healers. With that “previously in my imagination” taken care of, fair warning, I’m also incorporating the idea of lucid dreaming into the mix and taking liberties with certain spirits. Now on with the show!

Serilda would be hard-pressed to say when everything had changed between them, even with a knife to her throat. She certainly had expected nothing to develop, and not just because he was an elf and she a human. As a healer and being from the wilds of the Anderfels, there wasn’t much use in assuming superiority of one race over another. They were all in need of healing at some point or another and were all quite capable of bleeding to death. In fact, one feature of working with the Inquisition that she’d appreciated the most was being able to meet and work as colleagues with individuals from all walks of life, from nearly all regions of Thedas, and from all known races. It had been humbling, enriching, and fascinating. So, it wasn’t the difference in background or culture that made it seem unlikely they would ever give notice to one another aside from mere recognition of another living being.

When they did finally have occasion to trade more than mere greetings or polite missives in passing, that he had found her non-magical methods of healing to be near barbaric, and she’d found his excessive reliance on magic alone for nearly everything to be more of a hindrance than a help, had made the other stand out in Skyhold. From that point forward, he’d been marked as a target for her, and she for him, as someone to challenge, someone to debate with, someone to be as iron sharpening iron—and back home, those were always the most sought-after friendships cum rivalries. Serilda did still feel some satisfaction in that he’d never been able to give her a convincing answer of what the hell he’d do if there ever came a time when his magic was gone. But then neither had she ever been able to convince him of how her methods of healing were, in fact, far more natural than his magic, and that in a fashion made her far closer to how things should be than he. And there was beauty in that, a beauty that she’d appreciated and now missed dearly.

From the moment she’d met him, Serilda had wanted to do something physical to him, at first violence and then, much later, something else entirely. From the look of superiority he flashed to basically everyone in the Inquisition, to his cynical comments that oft led to backhanded compliments, Serilda had known at the first meeting that this elf would leave a mark on her life. Of course, at first, she’d expected the mark to be one of annoyance and a desire to prove the apostate wrong at every turn. And that had been true and still was true. Her desire to wipe the smirk off his face with a well-aimed surgical hammer or feel for herself the satisfying crunch of bone on bone as she smashed her fist into his face after yet another one of his barbed insults only gradually waned as their rivalry and spirited debates continued and increased in frequency and soon occurred over meals. Eventually, the self-told bedtime stories that lulled her to sleep featured less physical maimings of a certain impish elf and instead showcased almost affection passing between them—this, of course, only being pictured in the last moments before Serilda fell entirely into the land of dreams.

Serilda supposed it had been her puckish move that had begun the additional switch from rivals to friends. That book she’d given him in jest—not knowing the apostate was familiar enough with Anderfel culture to understand her people intentionally chose one person to gift to on Wintersend—had not only taken him by surprise but began a flurry of exchanges between them. He drew upon his extensive network of resources to find increasingly strange and overlooked tomes and artifacts that supported his perspective on health and healing. In contrast, Serilda had to rely on the good graces of the Inquisitor or her friendship with Ambassador Montilyet to procure similar items, but that spoke in support of the opposite perspective.

Even when out in the field with the Inquisitor, this did not stop the dastardly elf from sending her items with notes—of course, written with impeccable loops and swirls by a steady hand. It had been a rare occasion that Serilda had returned the favor, finding out where the Inquisitor would be stationed next and sending along her own “gift” for the elf with a hastily scrawled note, written by a determined hand that didn’t have the time to waste on elongating a bloody loop. These notes also took on a life of their own as the days drew on, eventually traveling between them, even unaccompanied by the irksome—or surprisingly considerate—items they found for one another. For it had been by that time that their “war” shifted to include items that made them think of one another, granted at first only of how wrong the other was in their perspective on things, but that too also morphed to include less “aggressive” items that merely served as a memento or that would be something of assumed interest by the other when studied. Even after all the pain he’d caused them in the end, Serilda had kept every item and note he’d ever given her. Locked away in a trunk she had tucked under her bed at the farm.

Serilda was still fuzzy on the details, having had to rely on the accounts of eyewitnesses of the likes of Sera and Ironbull, but what she could remember of THAT night still brought a buzz of frustration to her mind. She’d rarely been one for the cups, at least not for deep cups, and yet that night, she’d fallen in with Rainier and Montilyet. Serilda couldn’t even remember now why she’d drunk as much as she did, though she knew the Antivan ambassador had very much had a hand in the copious amounts. Regardless, at some point in the night, Serilda had apparently gotten it into her head to confront the devious elf on some matter or another and had marched into his room as drunken as a prepubescent child at their first festival back home in the Anderfels.

Serilda didn’t know if what she remembered were facts, dreams, horrors even, but Serilda felt for certain in her verbal assault she’d either kissed him or tried to kiss him to prove an argument and, well, according to Sera and Ironbull, Serilda spent the entire night in his room, and he did as well. This was where Serilda felt they were in jest since when she woke the next morning, feeling as if Wardens had dragged her mouth across the Hissing Wastes and led darkspawn to drum in her brain, she’d been alone. Yes, in his room, but alone and with no evidence that that had ever been previously altered. Worse yet, when she did finally see him face-to-face, nearly two days later, when he returned from some personal errand, he acted as if nothing had happened and made Serilda feel she’d imagined the whole ordeal. 

But Serilda knew it had not been her imagination or the result of excessive alcohol that led them to share a tender moment in his room days after the “did we kiss” fiasco. With several dignitaries visiting from various kingdoms, a recent victory over Corypheus’ efforts, and resources flush from Montilyet’s well-connected network, a festival was hosted at Skyhold. She’d only gone to his room to drop off a book Harding had found in the Frostback Basin, more scraps of a book than a complete tome, hoping that he’d be elsewhere for the festival and could come back to find her gift. He’d been in his room, however, and she’d been forced to give him the book in person. It had been a thoughtful gift instead of an aggressive one, and he rewarded her more sincere efforts with an invitation to share a glass of wine. Then they’d sat and talked of things they loved or appreciated about the world, the Fade, and life itself, while music began playing from the adjacent main hall. Serilda had been commenting on how the style of dancing that accompanied this genre of music didn’t exist in the Anderfels when he’d invited to teach her how to dance to it. She’d balked at first, half expecting his invitation to be a jest or another opportunity to tease her for her “barbarity,” but he’d spoken in truth.

The first dance had been full of twirls and bends and required her to move with a lightness of step that no dance in the Anderfels required; so horrid had been her attempt, it had surprised Serilda he’d invited to teach her another when the music eventually shifted into a new song. The second dance had also been lively, though with a slow, repeating twisting lift that had Serilda astonished, one because he had the strength to lift her to his full arm’s length extension—she was marginally taller than him and much denser than his lithe form—and two for the fact that he seemed to enjoy teaching her the dance. The third and final dance had been slow, almost like one of those Orlesian waltzes the Nightingale and Montilyet taught the Inquisitor months before when they’d gone to the Winter Palace. It required he hold her hand with his other hand on her lower back, their bodies close and nearly touching, as he led her through a series of swaying turns that wove around the entirety of his room.

Throughout the dances previously, he’d regaled her with their history, the memories he’d encountered in the Fade that had featured these dances and had given her pointers how to improve her technique should she seek to dance them again. But on the third dance, he’d been silent, a content expression upon his face. By the end, something had again moved in the companionable fetters between them, and it had been he to lean forward and press a soft kiss to her cheek, again thanking her for the gift, and now the dances. They’d lingered together a few soft moments more, and with a gentle hand squeeze, she’d taken her leave of him.

The final fight with Corypheus had been mere weeks later, and he disappeared immediately after. With no explanation to any of them on the whys of his actions, his abrupt disappearance left Serilda wondering if anything at all had passed between them or if it had all been fanciful dreaming on her part. He’d said nothing in particular that would lead her to believe he felt more for her than friendship, and aside from the kiss and the growing affection between them in the last days, he’d done nothing either. So, the affront against her heart when it came to light, two years later, he’d been using them all to right a wrong he’d committed centuries before was not merely a crush from a failed potential romance—even if the affair had only ever been in her own head. It was the devastation of a friendship she’d held such value for, and it was the insult that in the time he’d been gone, she’d lost so many hours of sleep and waking moments worrying about his safety only to find out he’d been the nefarious puppet master behind all the recent chaos.

Serilda stretched her arms over her head as she opened her eyes. The place was empty still, but that didn’t surprise Serilda. She liked the quiet, the solitude, and found the calm and self-controlled atmosphere a much welcome mental salve. Though she found purpose and worth in her work with Ataashi and Cullen, the near-daily reminders of the past often rubbed at the edges of her heart. Especially as she watched the love deepen and grow between the former Inquisitor and her Commander, their mutual desire to be a source of healing for their former comrade-at-arms a further reminder of how much she'd never had in common with HIM. This bade her enter this place nearly every evening to ready herself for another day. She was not jealous of the Inquisitor or the Commander, she envied their joy, but did not begrudge their happiness in the slightest. She was content to be a part of their mission to improve the lives of so many even after the end of the Inquisition. Only, she needed a place to come to continue her own personal healing, as she'd never shared her true thoughts and feelings regarding him to a living soul and didn't plan on it either. 

While at first, it had been without definite form, now, after nearly a year of the Inquisition’s disbandment, her retreat had grown in detail. Evocative of her surgery at Skyhold, a long stone house stood in the middle of a wooded glade while a spherical pool surrounded by elven murals with a fire burning from its center sat adjacent. Serilda knew this pool was reminiscent of HIM, and while its first appearance had pained her, over time, she’d grown to appreciate its beauty and the fact that her mind could recall such details as to even make the murals as accurate as they were.

Serilda had created this place as a retreat from the nightmares that haunted the early days after his disappearance. Memories, misshapen by her feelings of betrayal and anger, had taken hold of her every night and left her drenched in sweat and feeling exhausted the next day. If not memories, then images of wolves, giant, with a half dozen eyes, stalking her, and devouring her friends, controlled her dreams. Not wanting to suffer the rest of her days as a victim of restless nights, Serilda had retreated into the teachings of her grandmother for aid. She supposed, had he known of her people’s ability to control dreaming states, Solas would’ve been impressed. But the bastard had never taken the time to know, to truly know, far too content with condescension and prideful assumptions of elven superiority when it came to dream walking. But then again, she too had allowed her own pride and disdain to cloud her ability to truly know him as well, and how things had ended proved testimony to that fact.

Serilda walked through the longhouse's stone wall, always delighted at the ability to do such things in her dream but stopped in surprise when another figure approached from the opposite end.

“Hello.”

Serilda’s eyes widened, “…hello?” The figure came closer, and with each step he took, she felt her heart race all that much faster. “After all this time, all you have to say to me is, ‘hello?’”

“That is the usual greeting between friends, is it not?” His familiar voice both grated and soothed her nerves.

“This is MY dream, Solas. I get to choose who comes into my dreamscape and greet me. I never invited you.” To keep herself from punching him, Serilda turned on her heel and walked back out to the glade. She didn’t need to look over her shoulder to know he followed. “And can we still be classified as ‘friends’ after the stunt you pulled? Ataashi tells me you plan on destroying all Thedas, and all peoples in it, to bring back your elven kingdom. Not sure that destructive desire constitutes friendship between us since I’d be on the ‘destroyed’ side of the coin if you have your way.”

Serilda’s eyes strayed to the elven pool at the same time she knew he noticed it as well, and she groaned.

“It seems that whether you intended it or not, you have invited me here.” He walked past her to stoop and dip his fingers into the pool, his eyes taking in the details of the murals. “Tell me, Serilda,” oh, it pissed her off how nice it sounded to hear her name rolling off his tongue again, “what would you not do to save the world you love?” Solas turned and sat on the pool's stone edge, one hand lazily drawing circles in the water’s surface while he braced his weight on the other.

Serilda crossed her arms over her chest, “I would not destroy multiple civilizations, peoples, and cultures. A few dozen, maybe hundreds, perhaps in a pinch a few thousand, IF in the destroying it ensured peace and prosperity to my people AND the neighboring peoples, but never an entire continent. I do not believe my people, my culture, to be so far superior that it should exist while all others are trampled into vague memory.” Her eyes narrowed as she continued to study her elven companion, “That is where we are very different, Solas. I believe some lines should never be crossed, whereas you believe yourself to be so far above everyone and everything that you get to mandate whether lines are drawn at all, let alone if they are crossable.”

“Perhaps.” He looked back to the water’s surface. “And yet, despite your own sense of superior morality to my ideals and the actions I’m willing to take for them, you have created this space,” he lifted his hand, droplets falling from his fingers, to point towards the murals that were exact duplicates to the ones he’d painted in Skyhold, “with these details. Why is that? Why would you invite someone so amorally deplorable in your eyes into your dreamscape?”

He sounded genuinely curious, and it was her first clue that perhaps this wasn’t Solas at all. To have him unaffectedly voice curiosity without a hint of disdain or threat of challenge put Serilda on guard. She had been listening when Solas explained to her what dreams really were and how mages, or certain skilled individuals, could walk the Fade with controlled efforts, encountering spirits or demons as a result of their emotional state and mind. She’d met those demons in the early days after his disappearance, hence why she’d built this place and kept it so well guarded, finding solace in the solitude. But somehow, it seemed, a spirit had ventured here, latched onto her thoughts and feelings, and projected for her something it believed she wished to see. At least, that was her quickly forming hypothesis of the situation.

“Are you a spirit?”

“Solas” smiled, “Does that matter?”

Shrugging and throwing caution to the wind, Serilda stepped forward and pushed. “Solas” fell into the pool with a satisfying yelp, sending splashes of water in every direction, drenching the front of her clothes, and spraying her face. When he finally came up, his skin glistening and his eyes wide, Serilda let out a bark of laughter.

“I suppose it doesn’t if I get to do that.” She doubled over as her laughter continued. He looked like a drowned kitten, and the sight of it did wonders to her soul. “Solas” looked at her in confusion for a few moments more before he too filled the glade with the sound of his laughter.

And that was how it began, these visits between Serilda and “Solas.” Even as they continued to meet every night, he never confessed to being a spirit, though Serilda knew the truth. She didn't know what kind of spirit, but whichever type, she found the pain of the real Solas’ betrayal and absence wane as the visits continued. As she was able to vent her anger and have him patiently listen, scream out her confusion and have him comfort her, and occasionally douse him in the pool or be soaked in return, Serilda found the cracks in her heart fill as hope for a better tomorrow returned to the marrow of her bones.

Little did she know that with each visit to this place, and with the hours she spent in control of this corner of the Fade, she drew the curiosity of a certain elven acquaintance. Known by many names, he had by now grown accustomed to one over all the others: Fen'Harel.


	2. Finding Revasan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See the notes at the end for the elvhen translations. The riddles found here are from old Norse and Anglo-Saxon tradition. Cheers!

It was a surreal experience to watch himself move through the glade speaking with such jovial familiarity as if never had there ever existed disappointment or marring betrayal between them. Though the Fade could alter appearances, even from this distance, she looked much the same as when he’d last seen her. The light of this place allowed the honeyed gold of her short-cropped hair to shimmer, and she was clad in the same Anderfel-style leathers that hugged her curves and moved like a second skin, leaving little to one’s wicked imagination. After indulging himself with an affectious glance at her, he turned his attention to her companion. The guise of himself in the glade moved with the same mannerisms as he knew he did, the vocal inflections the same, the facial expressions all too familiar. He shook his head and narrowed his eyes as his mind raced to make sense of what it was he observed before him.

How could it be that she was here, that this place was here, sustained so carefully and with such detail, or that a spirit had taken on his form? Was she aware that it was a spirit, or was she receiving its attentions thinking it was indeed him? As the pair of them fell to the ground near to the pool, flopping onto their backs with the same carefree innocence of children, their blithe voices drifting to his hidden spot among the trees, he stifled an instant surge of envy. So many unanswered questions yet remained here and the first surge of emotion he felt aside from confusion was envy, how irritating.

He’d found this place purely by accident. There were many places in the Fade under Dreamers and mages' influence, some more controlled than others. At times he moved through their dreams in the form they assumed him to have as Fen’Harel, the Dread Wolf, taunting them even as he sought clues from them. His agents were plentiful, and they were still many steps ahead of what was left of the Inquisition spy network, but he found walking through the Fade and entering the dreams of those who might call him enemy to be useful. He’d once spoken in truth with Vivienne regarding his exploration of the Fade, that it was partially done out of curiosity and mostly done to find out secrets that he could use to further his cause. That he found this place, under the assumed control of this particular woman, left him curious and demanded further study.

In all the time they’d known each other, she’d never exhibited the ability to Fade walk, neither had she ever commented on it. He remembered speaking on many occasions of the things he’d seen and done in the Fade, explaining to her the truths of what it was and how it could be controlled but never had she given indication that she was already well-versed in the skills of Fade walking. And in those days at Skyhold, he’d never once encountered her in the Fade, at least not in a controlled fashion. He’d seen her in the Fade, but only as he saw most humans when they dreamed, unconscious of the reality of the Fade and unaware of his presence. This, however, was entirely different.

He crept closer, careful not to alert either to his presence. It was unlikely that this spirit was here against its will or had been forced to take on his appearance. It was not out of a desire to protect the spirit that had him drawing closer, but an immutable inquisitiveness to understand the how and why of this place and its current inhabitants. He stilled when he was close enough to make out their words, his location affording him only a glimpse of their forms lying side-by-side in the grass.

“Tell me another.” It was uncanny to hear his own voice drift through the glade, though it was not he who spoke.

Serilda laughed, and for the second time since coming here, he felt envy. Envy and guilt, though guilt was something he could ill afford to coddle in his heart. He was careful to shield his emotions. Not wanting to influence the spirit or draw demons to their location.

“Alone I wage war, wounded by steel, wounded by swords.” Her voice had taken on a singsong lilt that tempted him to draw even closer, though instead, he fisted his hands in his lap as he leaned against the tree, continuing to listen. “Weary of war, weary of blades. I battle often. All I see is savage fighting. No assistance will come for my cursed self, ere I demise amidst men. But the enemy strikes me with sharp edges: smiths made those with mighty hammers.” He realized then that it was a riddle, and not for the first time since coming here he was struck with the bizarre circumstances he found himself in. Listening to the former Skyhold surgeon, his once friend and nearly something else he still refused to acknowledge or give voice to, perform a riddle for a spirit who sat in his form in the middle of a carefully constructed corner of the Fade. He shook his head and listened as she finished, “They batter me in cities. I shall abide the meeting of foes. Among healers, I never met in men's towns those who with herbs could heal my wounds. But the wounds and cuts become wider through death-blows day and night.”

So much of what she described struck a chord within him. Though a riddle, he felt it reflected much of what he had seen both before and after his betrayal of the Evanuris. It caused him to recall all the choices he’d made in the name of making a better tomorrow for his people, only for everything to fall apart. He recalled a poignant conversation with Varric years before when he’d accused Varric of giving up as he passively accepted the dwarven people's current reality. Only Varric’s response had given him pause, much as this riddle did, challenging him to review his perspectives, to see if the acceptance and a building up of what was good in the moment was truly the better choice after all.

“Do you need a hint?” Serilda broke the contemplative silence, drawing him back from his increasingly tumultuous thoughts. It took him a moment to remember that she wasn’t speaking to him, but to the spirit who looked like him.

“No,” the spirit rolled on its side to face-to-face Serilda, “it is a shield. I see it clearly in your mind.” He watched as the spirit reached up and drew out the image of the aforementioned item. “One that Rainier used.”

“Now, did you read the answer in my mind or just the image? Remember, we specified no cheating.” If she knew she was interacting with a spirit, it surprised him how affable she seemed towards it.

“I’ll never tell.”

Serilda laughed again and lightly punched the spirit in the arm, “Do you want another one? I think we have time for one more.” She waited until the spirit nodded, then spoke with a smile, “I yearn to have what I had yesterday. What do I long for, my lord? It hurts men and hinders words, yet also elevates speech. Can you solve, oh King, this riddle?”

He smiled. Varric had told him this one year ago, and it made him wonder if she’d learned it from the dwarf or if he’d learned it from Serilda. He mouthed the answer even as the spirit answered, “Ale,” causing him to jerk. He did not think he would ever grow used to hearing his voice come from the spirit.

“Cleverer and cleverer.” Serilda sat up and stretched her arms overhead. “I will see you again tomorrow.”

He watched with a mixture of envious horror and fascination as she leaned over and placed a kiss on the spirit’s cheek. It was obviously a routine movement passed between them, as was the spirit’s returning kiss on her cheek, and it left him with an unwelcome longing in his gut. How long had this been going on that it would allow her to pass such affection towards a spirit in his guise? He continued to stare in brooding silence until the image of Serilda faded from view, leaving him alone with the spirit.

“You are he.” The spirit spoke to him as soon as she was gone. “Fen’Harel. The Dread Wolf.” The spirit did not stand, nor did it change form, but continued to speak to him in his own voice from his own body. “He who hunts alone. The Lord of Tricksters. The Great Wolf.” Since the spirit refused to move, he moved to stand before the spirit, listening while also studying the familiar murals detailed on the walls surrounding the pool. “Roamer of the Beyond. The old wolf. Bringer of Nightmares.” It was remarkable that these details were here, so clear and accurate. He could not help but reach out and draw his hand over the surface of one of his old paintings. “Or are you Solas?” The spirit finally stood, and it was like staring at a mirror when he turned to look at it.

“An answer for an answer,” he replied, waiting until the spirit nodded, “What matter of spirit are you?”

“I am hope.”

He shook. Such a spirit was rare to find, though not nearly as rare as wisdom. That her controlled corner of the Fade had attracted this spirit and prompted it to take on this guise fueled both his trepidation and curiosity.

“And you are Solas.” Hope continued with an easy smile. “Though beyond the Fade, you have embraced the name Fen’Harel, here you are Solas.”

“Is that what she calls you?” He refrained from asking all his questions at once. This should take time, as it was apparent to him now that this spirit was invested in not only Serilda, but it also seemed himself.

Hope shook its head, “She called me that once. At the beginning. When she first pushed me into the water,” the spirit nodded towards the pool, causing Solas to raise an eyebrow, “but she has not called me anything other than friend since then.” Hope smiled, “Is that not what you would like her to call you?” The spirit stepped closer then, after a moment longer of almost intrusive study, whispered, “She was your _fenor da’mi_ , and you were her _falon vhenan._ ”

“No,” Solas stopped denying almost as soon as he began. There was no use in arguing against a spirit, especially not one like Hope. That it would choose to voice such notions in his own language further galled Solas with memories he’d valiantly kept at bay for years now. “She is a s _omniari_ , a dreamer.” Solas turned the topic once more and shook his head. “How did I not know this?”

“How could you know when your _taren_ was on your _halam’shivanas_? There is much that you missed thinking always of the past, and yet you are here, _lathbora viran_ , a path you thought never to know _. Mala suledin nadas,_ Fen’Harel, for this path has found you regardless of your attempts at evasion. Now _malas amelin ne halam,_ one that is befitting this place, this woman, or else _mar solas ena mar din._ ”

Solas winced, faced with such accusatory truths coming from the spirit of Hope. “ _Ma serannas_ for your wisdom, spirit.” He looked around at the glade, still in awe that she could construct such a place. “What has transpired between you here? How long has this occurred?” He did not ask why the spirit had taken on his form. He tiptoed around that question like the coward he knew himself to be.

“Healing,” Hope smiled, “she named this place _Revasan_ ;” Solas felt his gut lurch. “For here she has had the freedom to express ideas, memories, feelings that she thought never to express.”

“I would think that such emotions would attract spirits such as Compassion or perhaps even Courage. Why you?”

“Ah, but _telanadas,_ Solas, or else all is lost.” The spirit grinned and spread its arms wide. “ _Vhen’an’ara enasalin_. There is hope in that endurance, in that desire to carry on past the pain, past the disappointment.”

Solas rocked back on his heels as he crossed his arms over his chest, tapping his chin in thought, “You’re reflecting her thoughts, her feelings, are you not?”

“Are they only hers?” The spirit was coy with its answer, playfully moving past him to stand at the edge of the pool. “Her desire for hope above all else drew me here, and I could not resist. Then once I was here, when I saw in her memories the pain you caused, I could not resist reflecting to her what her hope demanded.”

 _“Melana en athim las enaste, Mana.”_ Solas dropped his arms and moved to stand beside Hope. _“Ma halani,_ spirit.”

The spirit smiled though it did not look over to Solas, “And for that humility, I will grant you favor. Now, what would you have me do?”

In truth, Solas had no logical, reasonable justification for asking the spirit for what he did. It did not fit with his goals, his current path to reestablish the Elvhenan. But Hope was infectious, his curiosity far from satiated, and it seemed he was a glutton for pain. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elven terms as I found them translated in various places:
> 
> Fenor: precious  
> Da’mi: little blade (endearment for someone who is stubborn but effective, someone who does something regardless of consequences)  
> Lathbora viran: Roughly translated as "the path to a place of lost love," a longing for a thing one can never really know.  
> Halam’shivanas: sweet sacrifice of duty  
> Mala suledin nadas: Now you must endure  
> Malas amelin ne halam: I hope you find a new name  
> Ma serannas: My thanks./Thank you.  
> Ma halani: Help me.  
> Mar solas ena mar din: Your pride will be your death.  
> Melana en athim las enaste: Now let humility grant favor.  
> Telanadas: Nothing is inevitable  
> Vhen’an’ara enasalin: Heart’s desire (journey of the heart) [will] endure!  
> Somniari: Dreamer  
> Taren: Mind.  
> Falon: Friend  
> Vhenan: Heart  
> Revasan: The place where freedom dwells


	3. Telanadas, fenorain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Potential trigger warning: features miscarriage.

The anguish of the loss accompanied Serilda into her dream. It affected the lighting of her glade, hushing its usual lush tones and stilling the fire that regularly leapt from the center of the pool. Serilda knew she would need to shield her grief, distract herself from it here, or else she would ruin this dreamscape and need to make another. Yet the loss was so recent, the pain still raw, that she found it near impossible to do so.

“Hello,” her regular companion greeted her as he came through the woods. He raised a hand strangely as if to wave, before pulling it up to rub the back of his neck, an almost shy smile touching the corners of his mouth.

Serilda barely managed a greeting in return before she pitched forward into his arms. For a moment, his arms floundered as if unaccustomed to her weight or this affection. But then, as her arms wrapped around his waist, grabbing fistfuls of his tunic and she buried her face in his neck, she felt him shift his stance. His arms fell into place around her, his hands assuming a soothing brush up and down her back. Serilda closed her eyes, and the pain eased in her mind, the comfort her friend offered taking its place. She noted he smelled different today. Serilda opened her eyes. She couldn’t actually remember a time that he had smelled at all, and yet today the scent of broken bark, churned earth, and campfire smoke all mixed in her senses, wafting off his clothes. It was comforting, even if it was new and unexpected, and Serilda closed her eyes as she squeezed him closer.

“What has happened, _mir falon?_ ” His voice was muffled when he spoke, at last, his face turned towards her head, his lips brushing against the skin of her temple.

Though he seemed altered, his movements more stilted, almost formal, and his words influenced by the elven identity of the true owner of this form, Serilda chalked it up to further influence from the pain she was projecting into the glade. Sniffing, she pulled back just enough to stare at him, noting that even the way he looked at her now seemed unusual. Was her pain really that potent, and so quickly too? He was staring at her almost as if he’d never seen her, now holding her as if she were to break into a thousand pieces if he moved wrong. And perhaps she would, and it was true her friend never had seen her quite like this. Though he’d shared in her pain from Solas’ betrayal, he’d never encountered the brutal grief that accompanied the loss of a life that should have lasted much longer.

“My friend, Ataashi,” Serilda stepped out of his arms but kept hold of one of his hands as she led them to sit with their backs against the stone wall of the pool, “she lost her child.” She thought she felt him stiffen beside her but again wrote it off as further influence from her own unshielded grief. “They had barely known they were with child, only a few months into the pregnancy,” Serilda took a steadying breath, “I was the one who told her both of the pregnancy and of the loss.” She clenched her free hand into a fist, pounding it into the ground, “Should have kept my bloody mouth shut.”

Stilling her movements as he spoke, “ _Ir abelas, ma da’mi_ ,” he reached over and took hold of her chin, turning her to face him, “you did nothing wrong. It is not your fault.”

Serilda blinked. Just moments before he’d seemed uncertain with touching her, and yet now he was initiating a touch they’d not yet shared, exhibiting an intention behind said touch she’d never seen in him before. And he again spoke strangely. She did not know the words, though she understood their origin, and stranger still she _felt_ the meaning behind the words even if she did not know their actual definition. Had something else happened here in her absence that would change him so drastically? Serilda nodded to her friend, uncertain yet if she appreciated this change or even if she hoped it would remain. After he took his hand from its light touch on her face, his eyes remained steady as they explored her features. Once more, it felt as if he were seeing her for the first time, almost as if he were drinking in the sight and the moment because he would not again be able to do so.

“If I had said nothing, then they might never have known.” Serilda sighed as she broke eye contact. “It was too early to have much form beyond that of a glob of flesh and blood,” Serilda held out her hand, and taking her hand free from his grasp, she used her finger to draw a small circle on her palm, “It was this big and if I’d said nothing then Ataashi might have assumed it to be a blood clot, they come often enough during a woman’s cycle. And the pain could have just been connected to a terrible cycle; they too happen when under greater amounts of stress.” Serilda shook her head before laying it against the stone wall behind her, eyes unable to find purchase on any detail of the glade. “I was just so surprised when she asked me to examine her when her health changed, and at first I thought it impossible, but when her body started to show signs too, I couldn’t keep silent. They were so surprised, so happy, we all invested so quickly in this new life that-” she broke off, unable to finish.

“A healer’s hands are bloodiest,” he took hold of her hand again and held it against his chest, “For you discern the truth and must accept the pain to make things better. Nothing is healed by hiding or ignoring.”

Serilda recalled the real Solas telling her something similar years ago but did not remark on it now. This spirit often had the ability to say things that Solas had said, act in his manner, and she knew it was drawing inspiration from her memories. Heaving another deep sigh, she shifted on the ground until she could lay her head upon his shoulder.

“You know what’s crazy?” She felt tears prick her eyes. “Ataashi wanted to name it Atish’an.” He did stiffen then, unmistakably so. “She still has so much hope that we can be reconciled with Solas that she literally wanted to name her child ‘peace’ as a reminder.”

He cleared his throat, “A fitting name for such a hope.” He breathed deeply and spoke on his exhale, “Do you think that her hope is well-founded? Do you believe similarly?”

“I want to,” Serilda tilted her head to look up at him, “but the desire for reconciliation has to come from both sides. If Solas,” she smiled then, finding it strange that she spoke of an elf whose visage held her but who would balk at the very idea of holding her like this, “continues in his obdurate wish to remake the world to fit that which once was, then I can hope all I want but the obliteration of myself, this world, and my friends, would be inevitable.”

“ _Telanadas, fenorain._ ” He traced the backs of his fingers down the side of her face, his touch again deliberate, abnormal, but not unwelcome, and his voice more like a purred whisper than ever before. “Nothing is inevitable, Serilda.”

Time already had no meaning in her dream, and yet as she lay against him, their gazes warmly traveling over each other’s faces, his arm coming up around her shoulder, securing her more firmly to his side, Serilda felt as if time had stopped completely. Never before had she felt this with the spirit, though never before had it acted quite like this either. It seemed to be taking on more human-like traits, and while she would need to carefully consider what that meant later, for the time, it felt like heaven to be held like this, and she was selfish and foolish enough to accept that and bask in it.

“Thank you for saying that, friend,” Serilda reached up and mirrored his touch to his face before wrapping her fingers around the back of his neck and using the hold to pull herself close enough to kiss his cheek, “you are always such a comfort, reminding me that there is always hope.”

It almost felt like he shivered under her touch before he pulled away so he could frame her face with both of his hands, “And I too appreciate the reminder, _‘ma’halla._ ”

Though brief, the kiss he gave her was directly to her lips, and even with knowing this was not the real Solas, this was only a spirit reflecting to her what she’d once hoped for, yearned for, Serilda could not hold back the sigh of joy she felt in response. She quickly pulled her face from his hands and tucked herself once more against his side, her face turned down to avoid any temptation to continue such intimate touches. She did not want to corrupt the spirit, as Solas had once explained was possible to do if spirits were exposed too long to humans' more base or selfish emotions. She’d come to appreciate this spirit far too much to risk such harm it or risk losing this place for them both.

“What shall you do now?” He asked next, after several peace-filled moments of silence.

“Continue to support Ataashi and Cullen. Continue my work at the farm. Theirs is not the only pain, and now it is a pain I cannot heal, whereas with the others,” she shrugged, “they at least have physical injuries I can look after.” After another moment, she chuckled, “Even Solas’ magic couldn’t heal them, daft elf.”

The sound of his soft chuckle reverberated in his chest, “I believe even he would concede there are moments when magic does not suffice in the healing. When only time and internal effort can bring about change.”

“Oh,” Serilda sighed, though her lips were pulled back into a smile, “it would be such a delight to hear him tell me that himself.” She quickly patted his chest, leaving her hand there, “not that I don’t appreciate hearing it from you, my friend.”

“Perhaps one day, he will. One should never lose hope.”

Serilda smiled as she curled closer against his side. They rarely maintained contact for so long, and in truth, she’d never felt the desire to keep contact for so long, but perhaps it was the changes in his demeanor, or the changes in herself, that had her relishing the touch and seeking more. Thankfully, he did not seem to mind, as he merely waited until her shuffling settled her more comfortably against his side before dropping his arms back into place, one draped over her shoulder, while the other crossed over his chest to trace fingers lightly through her hair.

“When this is all over, I mean should Solas not follow-through or succeed in his plan, and I’m given the opportunity to see him again outside of dreams, I honestly don’t know what I’ll say to him.” Serilda began to draw circles on his chest, her fingers dancing over the crinkles in the fabric. “This place, and especially your friendship, has helped me heal. Helped me to acknowledge some things I’d once thought traitorous.” His fingers stilled their movements in her hair. “But the same thing hasn’t happened to him. If we were to meet outside this place, he would look at me in the same way he did before he abandoned us. Or perhaps, worse yet, the way he did when we first met. With that smug expression of superiority, I always wanted to punch off his face.”

Even though she heard him chuckle again, his words and voice were serious when he spoke, “Even if events are not the same for him, wherever he might be, that is not to say that he would be the same person as when you last met.” His fingers resumed their caress along her hairline.

“True. He could be an even bigger asshole than before.” Serilda sat up and laughed at the spirit’s affronted look. “Come on, enough of this. I believe I have a game I promised I’d teach you.” When the spirit continued to look at her, she sighed, “Chess!” The smile that lit up the spirit’s face then could have been equal to the sun had it existed in her dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elvhen terms:
> 
> mir falon: my friend
> 
> Ir abelas, ma da’mi: I’m sorry, my little blade
> 
> Telanadas, fenorain: nothing is inevitable, little precious
> 
> ‘Ma’halla: my halla (An endearment for a very close friend that you trust implicitly.)


	4. Time's Blade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Featuring a canon character death, some playing around of some potential spirit guides, and some playing around with some backstory. Cheers!

He’d had a mother once, long ago, in another age, as another elf. He couldn’t recall now what the scent of her hair or the shade of her eyes had been, but there had been times over his centuries of existence where he’d felt himself on the edge of a memory of her. A real memory and not an imagined one. For example, he knew it was from his mother that he’d developed such a strong affinity for forests and the wilds, where he heard the echoes of voices carried on the wind undoubtedly coming from her as she spoke to her child, Solas, rearing him in the ways of their people. Solas also knew that his sense of cause and effect, with wisdom gleaned being its own reward, came directly from his mother's teachings. She had already been long acquainted with the passage of time when she’d had him, this much Solas remembered, and had made sure he’d been raised with a genuine appreciation of the wisdom that sifting through time brought.

Such time was once a blessing to him, but he felt diminished after so many years alone, in mind, soul, and body. He had no more spirit to draw from. The past was too long gone. He was bereft as he pondered his mother at present, so far removed from her life, that Solas couldn’t determine what else about his essence came from her and what had built and morphed over the years to produce what now lay dying beneath the thick foliage of the wooded glen he’d finally collapsed in.

It was fitting that it should happen here. In all the world full of wonders, he’d preferred the peaceful music found only within a forest. Even when the collection of tragedies of the world he’d help create threatened to bear down on him, the woods had always beckoned him to come into their midst for healing. Through the branches and glimpsed through the shifting greenery of breeze tickled leaves, Solas caught sight of the red sun. Fitting that it should be so colored, matching the pool of his own blood that gathered in the grass beneath his body. Also fitting that this would be the moment he drew his last breath: sunset.

The sun was setting on his life, and there was nothing, no one, to tether him to the land of the living. He had no voice to follow into the Fade once he drew his last breath. And he could see no path for him to travel, even without this fatal wound. He had spent his days chasing truth, fighting for it, driving others into their graves for it, and somewhere along the way, he’d lost himself. Solas recognized that he’d become the monster he’d warned Blackwall about. He knew now, at the end of it all, how much he had spoken but not taken to heart for himself. If he honestly believed his own words—that all free-willed people had a right to exist, to choose the way they were to live their lives and find happiness, that no man can kill so many people without breaking inside—would this have turned out differently? Would he have chosen differently?

Cole had once spoken of this with him, challenging him to let it go, and Solas had merely thought Cole a benevolent spirit whose advice was comforting but also to be taken lightly. As his breath became more shallow, the very effort to keep on breathing a heavily labored one, Solas couldn’t help but wonder more deeply on the could haves and might haves, maybe even should haves, of the past.

And he remembered it well. In this final moment of life, Solas remembered it all. The beauty of Arlathan and the power of the Evanuris pulsating as a beacon through the world. The bond between his soul and Mythal, not shattered even in her murder by those ignorant of the consequences such an action would demand. His people's fall resulting from his own prideful assumptions and the feeling of such shame choking out all hope until all that was left was resolute determination. Then in the years of his _uthenera_ , the mysteries and wonders he’d seen in the Fade, and the spirits he’d made as friends there. Upon awakening, finding the horrific consequences of his actions, and more so by his misjudgment of Corypheus. And Solas remembered the people, the courageous people of the Inquisition, who turned the tide against Corypheus and sought to make the world a better place. Despite him.

Solas pressed his wound harder, the pain gripping his body as his thoughts turned to HER. He was thankful Serilda’s vocation had kept her from meeting him on the battlefield all the way to the end, that though she’d opposed him, she’d never been forced to raise a weapon against him, or he her. They had called her to piece together the men and women his forces cut down, and no doubt she’d cursed his name more than once when her efforts proved in vain. But never had they crossed blades of metal. Blades of words and ideals, many a time, both during the time of the Inquisition and later, in the Fade, in her cleverly crafted glade.

Solas allowed himself a smile as his chest fluttered, seemingly the weight of the world pressing on his lungs and the ice of his seeping power seizing control of his limbs. He’d already lost so much blood; it was a wonder he had any more to sacrifice to the earth beneath him. At least a dozen times, he’d met her in the Fade, strangely posing as a spirit of Hope, who was posing as him. In those visits, he’d been able to speak with her, hold her, dream with her as a simple elf, one without the guilt of an entire race on his shoulders, without the shame of a failed effort of redemption, and without the resignation of the coming slaughter of his past friends. And Serilda had been merely a woman, a friend, a confidant who loved him and whom he would admit he loved in return. While at first, it had surprised him that Hope would be so attracted to Serilda’s glade, as rare a spirit as it was, Solas found himself infected with it the longer he spent with Serilda in the Fade, making each parting harder and harsher. 

Serilda had sensed the truth of the switches but not spoken of it, at least not until the last time. By the statement of “time,” that had only been two nights before, in fact, right before the last battle against the opposition from which he now lay dying.

_“Do you think time outside the Fade will again be the joy it once was?” Serilda asked, her voice muffled slightly as she spoke against his chest._

_Solas tilted his head to look at her but could only see the top of her golden-colored head. She lay sprawled atop him, her knees on either side of his hips with her hands tucked up under his shoulders, to burrow as much against him as was possible. They’d ended up on the ground like this after she’d challenged him to a wrestling match—she’d bested him two out of three times—and had ended the final match—his victory—with her flipping them once again so she could get comfortable on top of him, not that Solas minded. It had been a pleasant surprise, discovering how physically affectionate she was, so unlike her no-nonsense forthright nature he’d grown to respect._

_“What do you mean, arasha?” She responded to his use of elvhen as she always did by shifting her body weight to somehow get even closer to him, and he heard her heave a contented sigh._

_Serilda didn’t look up as she continued her train of thought in reply, “Time has no meaning here, of which I’m grateful. But time outside the Fade used to have joy, equal in many ways to the joy I feel here with you.” She finally raised her head and lowered it on her hands upon his chest, her eyes peering into his. “Do you think it is possible to have joy again outside the Fade, within the clutches of time?”_

_Solas knew as the spirit of Hope he would answer a certain way and had always been conscious of this, seeking to maintain the guise as best he could, with rarely a slip. But her question so pinned him, Solas knew he could not answer as Hope. In fact, he felt unable to answer at all. Serilda, sensing this, leaned forward and placed a soft kiss against his lips._

_“I hope it is possible, Solas. Because as much as I enjoy meeting you here,” she raised herself up just enough to show their surroundings, “I would much rather hold you like this within the concept of time and place.”_

Solas groaned as the memory faded from his mind. It was becoming harder to keep his thoughts in one place or focused on any one thing now. He knew it would not be long before time's blade pierced him at last…

“ _Sahlin_.” His own voice spoken on the wind brought Solas’ dying mind back together long enough to look around. Though his vision was failing, growing darker at the edges, he could still discern the shifting of shadows that denoted a spirit by his side.

“You have crossed the Veil,” Solas recognized the spirit as Hope, “ _ma ghilana mir din'an_ , my friend. I am ready.”

The spirit shifted closer, “Is that what you want? To die? Do you have no hope for more?”

Solas shook his head, “ _Ma melava halani,_ in the Fade with Serilda. For that, I am grateful. There is nothing I would ask of you now. _Ar lasa mala revas.”_

“Ah, but I believe it is within MY power to give you freedom, Solas.” The spirit now hovered just above the length of Solas’ body. “Just say the word, and you may declare, ‘ _Ir tel'him,_ ’ for it will be as you were in your youth.”

“But I have already lived and survived the follies of my youth,” Solas was panting for need of breath, “I need not extend my hours for more foolishness.”

“And what of her? Have you no hope for her? For you both?”

Solas again shook his head, “I would corrupt you, spirit. I have proved to the world and to myself that I cannot be trusted. Though my ideals are lofty, and my desires are for good, in the end, I have brought nothing to this world but death and destruction. Only with my death, I hope to leave behind peace.” Solas took a steadying breath, “ _Nadas,_ it is time spirit.”

“Would you know what she hoped for before you die?”

“You will tell me regardless; I know that spirit.” Solas gritted his teeth. Fighting off the tendrils of death to stay with the spirit brought the pain from his wound back to the forefront of his mind.

“’To show him the world as I see it,’ she said to me. ‘To see the world as he sees it,’ she added. ‘To build a world together, ever learning, ever growing.’” The spirit convalesced into a ball, hovering just over his face. “These are only a few of the things she hoped. There were many others. Some pertaining to you, others to her friends, still others to her family and to Thedas itself.”

Solas sighed, “And she told you these things when? Years ago, before my forces killed many of our shared friends?” Solas knew the question was unfair. For the spirit, time had no meaning, and even if Serilda had said those things years ago, the spirit would remember it only as if it were moments before. “I doubt she would still have the same hopes, spirit. I have brought her too much pain, her and her people, my own as well. Let me die, and rid this world of my vanity.”

“But do you not hope to make things right? With her? With her people, your friends? With your people?”

“That is why I am dying, spirit,” Solas closed his eyes as a wave of cold built from his feet and traveled up his legs, “my attempt to make things right only made things worse.”

The spirit shifted back and forth over Solas’ body. He felt the warm movement even as he kept his eyes closed. He was so tired.

“She had hoped you would not be a coward in the end.”

Solas opened his eyes and narrowed his gaze at the spirit, “What?”

“The last we spoke,” the spirit stretched itself over Solas again, the warmth welcome, “she said she knew you would most likely be injured and that perhaps you would purposefully throw yourself in harm’s way with a ‘death wish,’ so she told me she hoped you would not be a coward. I believe she felt it would be cowardly of you to prefer death over ‘making amends’ as she described.”

Solas smirked. That would be something she would say, and he could picture her scowl and foot stomp as she said it as well. It was just like her to reason that his preferring death was the cowardly route where most others would merely be relieved that he was no longer a threat to their peace of mind.

“What say you, Solas?” The spirit asked again. “Where am I to go this side of the Veil?”

Gripping his fist against the wound in his chest, Solas answered like the elf Serilda believed him to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elvhen terms:  
> • Ma ghilana mir din'an: Guide me into death   
> • Ma melava halani: You helped me   
> • Ir tel'him: I'm me again   
> • Ar lasa mala revas: "You are free;” More literally "I give you your freedom."  
> • Uthenera: The name of the ancient practice of immortal elves who would "sleep" once they tired of life; literally "eternal waking dream".  
> • Arasha: My happiness  
> • Nadas: something that must be


	5. A Confession

It was damned cold out, and Serilda was thankful for every extra layer she'd thought to pack in her saddlebags before leaving. Another day or two, she would need to wear them instead of just carrying them on her mule. Tucking her chin down below the high collar of her traveling cloak, Serilda finished stabling her mule before grabbing her gear and heading towards the inn. She'd stayed here years before with no sort of trouble, and if it was under the same family ownership, she was confident there would still be no trouble. She'd stitched up the family dog after it'd gotten tangled up with some sort of wild animal and had earned herself a free meal back then. All she wanted now was a meal she didn't have to hunt or cook, a place to lie down out of the elements, and a decent night's rest. She wished no ill on a family pet to get all that for free or at a discounted price.

She'd been traveling for just over a month and had only just made it past the edges of the Nahashin Marshes. Mostly she'd been steady in her journey, though a few stops along the way to visit Inquisition-era friends had slowed her down. There would be no old friends to meet from this point forward, at least not until she crossed the border into the Tirashin region. Then, unless they'd been forced to relocate because of politics or Blight, she knew of a few homesteads of her people she could stop by to replenish supplies and trade old survival stories with.

Serilda felt a quickening in her blood at the thought of being back with her people. It had been years, and while so much had changed elsewhere in Thedas she knew, isolated as they were, not much would've changed back home. Serilda was thankful for that. It was nice to return to a place seemingly without change, even if every ounce of her being had morphed and adjusted in the years since she'd first left. Serilda had loved every moment with the Inquisition and would be happy to return once more to the farm with Ataashi and Cullen. But the last letter from her brother had made it clear they needed her at home, at least for a time. Because change was coming for her family, a change that came to every mortal family, and it was time for her to go home to meet it head-on.

The inn's dusky interior was the result of years of poor ventilation and heavy traffic, yet the combined scents of cooking meat, a hearty fire, and plentiful ale wrapped itself around Serilda and eased some travel-weary tension from her muscles. It was marginally crowded, but the innkeeper's daughter reassured her, the very one who'd brought her the dog, that they still had a few rooms left for those with coin. It took until they'd served her a simple meal of stew and bread with a flagon of ale before the excited yelps and licks from the dog reminded them of her identity. No refund or promise of discount came, though an additional round of thanks accompanied the realization, but it was a pleasant enough exchange that helped to fill Serilda's soul-cup just as the stew filled her stomach.

What they didn't repay in coin, they did in the surprise of a bath token. In the years since she'd last been by, they'd built a bathhouse outback and had designed a steam house next to that. Story went that some high-society Orlesian engineer could not pay his bill and so paid up by designing these buildings and leaving notes behind on what materials they would need to ensure its success. This additional accessory was one reason their inn was one of the most popular waypoints in the region, some people traveling just for the luxury of a bathhouse and steam room so far out on the edge of the wilds.

After dropping her gear off in the attic room they'd given her, Serilda carried the bathing attire the innkeeper's wife had given her under her arm and hurried out to the bathhouse. There were individual rooms for use, in addition to a common one. It depended on how much coin you were willing to part with, which one you got. She was pleased to find her bath token got her a private bathing room, but the common steam room if she wanted it. Serilda was just happy to wash the grime away from her body and have a few peaceful moments soaking in the wooden tub.

The combination of the warm water and low lighting of the lamps lulled Serilda into a dreamlike state after some moments of soaking. She took a deep breath, her chest rising above the water's surface, then slowly let it out, watching as her chest dipped beneath the water again. The buoyancy of the human body had always fascinated her. Taking another deep breath, Serilda plugged her nose then slunk her head under the surface. It was a game she used to play with her siblings, to see who could hold their breath the longest. She'd never been the winner. That title was typically held by her second eldest brother, but Serilda had once been runner up.

To distract herself from the need for oxygen, Serilda closed her eyes and retreated into her mind to recall various images of friends and events of the past few years. So much had happened since the end of the Inquisition, and even after that, after the war against the Dread Wolf had ended. Serilda felt the old pain of regret creep in on her heart at the thought of Solas and what could have been, and so quickly brushed aside that thought and instead thought of her old haven in the Fade, wondering how Hope was doing. She'd never been able to return there after news of Solas' defeat reached her at the farm. Even if Hope had been waiting for her, still in the guise of Solas, knowing that Solas would never again return to her, pretending to be Hope, had soured Serilda's interest in returning. With Solas' death, a piece of the hope she'd carried in her heart for so long had died too, and she feared corrupting the spirit if she ever came near again.

She still dream walked for fear of falling into nightmares if she didn't retain control over her sleeping hours, but she kept well away from the part of the Fade she'd once shared time with Solas and Hope. Instead, she relived fond memories of both her youth and the time with Ataashi and the others of the Inquisition, purposefully greying out the memories of Solas for fear of turning her dream walk into a nightmare or, worse yet, a ridiculous dream that would leave her in a daymare of loneliness.

Serilda opened her eyes. A bearded face hovered above the water's surface, and she let out all her air in a bubbling scream. Lashing out with her arm, she felt her fist connect with the intruder's cheek as she used her other arm to pull herself up from the water. She had no weapons here, had not thought to bring any, especially since she'd locked the door, but that didn't leave her completely defenseless. Serilda grabbed her towel and flicked it towards the intruder. The cracking sound of its edge snapping against the intruder's leg was satisfying but not nearly enough. He was quickly recovering and coming back towards her, his hands up as if in supplication. Serilda ducked beneath his grasp at the last moment, grabbed the stool she'd used to step into the bath, and pivoting on her feet, smashing the stool against the intruder's upper back. He fell to his knees with a moan of pain. Serilda used the moment to her advantage, seizing hold of the fabric of his shoulders and slamming his head against the edge of the tub as hard as she could. Once, twice, three times, she let loose and stepped back, arms up, ready for more if more was to come. But the intruder lay on his stomach, arms pinned beneath his crumpled mass, no movement except shallow breath disturbing his body.

She wasted no time, grabbing her discarded and now sopping wet robe's belt and looping it around the intruder's wrists once she got them out from under his body. Once secured, Serilda skirted around him to grab the stool. Placing it upright just in front of him, Serilda pulled the robe onto her shoulders and did her best to hold the folds shut as she sat down on the stool. The whole ordeal had happened so fast, and yet Serilda recognized the man had not seemed to be interested in hurting her. Securing her for something, yes, but harming her, no. There was also something vaguely familiar about him, now that she wasn't defending herself against him. His hair was a shaggy dark brown, once pulled back by a leather strap but now falling about his face. His beard was thick and reminded her briefly of Rainier in its style. His clothing gave hints of heavy travel, and looking around the bathroom, she spied his travel gear sitting against the wall, alongside a simple traveling staff.

Seeing the staff had Serilda's heart rate increase and on impulse, she leaned forward and pushed some of his hair back to reveal a pointed ear. Her breath left her lungs in a rush just as the intruder moaned and turned his head towards her hand, his eyes blinking open. She would recognize those hazel eyes anywhere, but how was it possible? Leliana had witnessed the killing blow, or so she'd reported to Ataashi after it had been done.

"I suppose you have questions." He coughed out his words on a wince, his body wriggling on the wet floor to sit up against the side of the tub. Serilda didn't help him. She was still in shock, wondering if she had somehow drowned in the bath, and this was now her dying brain imagining things. Satisfied for the moment, once he maneuvered himself into a position that had his back against the tub and his legs curled up into a seated position facing her, he took in a jagged breath as his eyes traveled over her form. "I hadn't thought…" His words died away, and after another lingering look, he tore his eyes away and stared at the floor by his knee. "I suppose I deserved all this, considering the manner in which I made myself known to you."

"What." Serilda gripped her hands together in front of her and leaned her elbows on her knees. "The." She tipped her head to the side, leaned in closer to study him, then leaned back again and shook her head. "Fuck."

He chuckled despite her rising ire and his position seemingly at her mercy, "Truer words have rarely been spoken in such situations."

"And you would be the expert on that was well?" Serilda pointed to the spilled water around them, his bound self, and her barely clad body in a soaked robe. "Often find your way into bathhouses to scare old acquaintances who believe you dead? Why am I not surprised that you would somehow find a way to be an expert on THAT along with everything else, you arrogant son of a bitch." Serilda had to stand up and walk away or risk slamming her hand against his face again. Already her knuckles were swelling at near the same rate as the abrasion she'd left on his cheek. She paced towards his travel pack and pointed to it. "Will I find answers in here?"

"Answers?" He was calm as he watched her poke at his gear, and his serenity just goaded her further.

"Yes, to the damned questions you said I would have." Serilda opened the back and unceremoniously dumped all its contents onto the floor. Nothing glaring elvhen or ominous stood out to her. In fact, everything looked exactly as it should for an ordinary traveler, and that just pissed her off more. "What the hell are you doing here, Solas?"

"Interesting that you're more interested in knowing _why_ I'm here instead of _how_ I'm here." Solas' soft smile didn't melt her heart as it had in the Fade and the few tender moments they'd shared before that. It only served as a reminder of all she didn't understand about this elf and his strange ways, and also reminded her of the fact that not too long ago, he'd been bent upon destroying all of Thedas for his own vision of perfection. "I would think that after what we'd shared, you would be pleased to see me."

Serilda drew herself to her full height, not caring that the robe gaped open and that it was apparent Solas could see much of her nude flesh. She was back in front of him and grabbing the front of his traveling cloak with both fists, pulling him up to meet her within seconds.

"That was the wrong thing to say, Solas." Her words sounded deadly, even to her own ears, and it surprised her how quickly this elf could get her to that point of anger.

Solas didn't speak for a moment as she held him up by his cloak. His gaze with shielded, but after another breath, it melted into one of vulnerability, and she heard him sigh out, " _Ir abelas, ma vhenan._ "

His look of sorrow and apology seemed so sincere, Serilda had to let him go and step back for fear of saying or doing something incredibly stupid, like forgive him. There was still so much unknown, and the fact remained that he was still Solas.

"Before we say or do anything else," Serilda grabbed the folds of the robe and tugged them closed again, "I need to know if you intend to destroy Thedas. Again." His eyes darted away for a moment but came back to meet hers when she continued, "Are you a threat to me and my people? My friends?"

Solas shook his head, his gaze dropping to his lap, and his voice was muffled when he replied, "I am no threat. And I have no intention of destroying anything or anyone." He brought his gaze back up to meet hers as he added, "I would not want to risk the corruption that would bring."

"The corruption?" Serilda blinked at him, confusion warring with assumption in her mind. "Is that how you survived? You've become an abomination?" It wasn't fear, but it was caution that filled her as she wondered just which spirit would've come to him in his dying moments, which spirit it would've been that Solas would've invited to reside within him.

"I want to answer your questions, Serilda," Solas shimmied on the floor to show her his bound hands, "but may we continue this conversation in a more comfortable setting." He averted his eyes again and swallowed, "And more properly attired."

Serilda's eyes widened, "You're complaining about my lack of attire when you're the one who chose to break into my bathhouse?" She tore off the robe and threw it on the floor beside him, "You pompous ass." Not bothering to untie him just yet, she stomped over to the shelf alongside the wall that had, thankfully, kept her clothing dry. "What did you expect? That I bathed in a dress?" Serilda felt Solas' eyes on her as she got dressed, not caring anymore that he could see, and by now had seen, every inch of her, especially as she'd bent over to pick up her fallen headscarf from the floor. Fully dressed, aside from tying the scarf around her neck, she turned and placed her hands on her hips, "Happy now? Shielded from the offensive view of my flesh?"

"It was not from offense that I made the request, Serilda." His voice had taken on a deeper quality, and even in the lamplight, she saw a slight flush had brushed his ears. "We have important matters to discuss and seeing you as you were…" he closed his eyes and took a breath as if to steady himself, and when he spoke again, his voice was back to normal, his gaze as well when he looked back to her, "it was far too much of a temptation for me to forego explanations and attempt a more pleasurable physical reunion than what we have thus far encountered."

Serilda's mouth dropped open in surprise. This was the first time he'd ever voiced aloud, be it in the Fade or Skyhold, the reality of his attraction to her. It had been hinted at but never spoken of, and in the Fade, it hadn't mattered anymore. He'd been pretending to be Hope and had never tried to push things too far past what would've been expected of a spirit. To have him say this now did strange, traitorous things to Serilda's mind and body, and she had to steel herself against the stirrings in her breast to keep from testing his words to see if they were, in fact, true.

"Have you eaten?" Her question took him by surprise, and he drew his head back as if the words themselves had pushed the motion. After a moment, he confirmed her suspicion and shook his head. "Very well. I could use a drink, maybe two, and no one tells a good story on an empty stomach." She motioned for him to lean forward and was quick to unloose the rope and get back out of reach. It wasn't out of fear of retaliation so much as it was temptation. "If you are an abomination, couldn't you have just busted through the rope without issue?"

Solas smiled as he pulled himself to his feet, "Ah _da'mi,_ would that have made you any more likely to share a meal and a drink with me?"

Serilda rolled her eyes before grabbing her belongings and leaving him to collect his. She wouldn't help him, even if she'd been the one to make a mess. The innkeeper didn't question when she ordered another meal and two ales, though his eyebrows rose a bit when Solas came in, his hood up and his hair down to disguise his ears. Serilda drank half her ale before Solas managed to get two bites of stew in, and he didn't speak up again until after he finished his food and began sipping at his ale, while Serilda was dipping into her second. She knew she should go easy, especially given what had happened the last time she'd gotten drunk around him. But her mind was swirling, and the ale took the edge off.

"Don't make me ask questions," she kept herself from saying his name. Not that she was afraid anyone in these parts would've known of either the Dread Wolf or Solas in much detail, but she didn't want to take the risk. "I deserve a good story without having to play the question game."

Solas smiled over the brim of ale, "That is true." After taking another long sip, he set down the ale and pushed it slightly to the side as he leaned his elbows on the rough-hewn table. The inn was not as crowded as it had been earlier, and this increased space between patrons afforded them some privacy to speak in hushed tones. "There was an elvhen mage-"

"Whose arrogance and pride destroyed him?" Serilda also leaned her elbows on the table, keeping a grip on her ale, the drink lending more ease to her movements than was normal.

"While you're not wrong," Solas sighed with a half-smile, "Do I get to tell the story, or are you going to make it up?" He waited until Serilda waved a hand in the air between, gesturing him to go on. "There once was an elvhen mage who felt himself a god, living in a time when there was no division between the Fade and the 'world' but all was the same and spirits walked freely among his people. It was a time of such wonder," his eyes had taken on a far off look, and Serilda felt drawn closer at the melancholic passion she heard in his voice, "such beauty and advancement," he shook himself then and brought his gaze back to the present and centered them back on Serilda, "and yet, also, such cruelty. For he was not the only powerful elf and counted himself as one among eleven, all who possessed great powers that led the people to see them as gods. For they had learned to harness to power of the sky to tame the tremors below the earth and rule absolutely the realm in between. They would like to have thought, they were the greatest in all the world, but if that had been true, this story would be different." Solas rolled his shoulders up and back to ease his tension before continuing. "Some used their powers to provide for the less powerful among the elvhen people, or even to free dwarven slaves from the grasps of titans beneath the earth," Serilda's eyes widened, not having heard that part of Thedas' history in the oral tradition of her people. Solas continued, "While others used their powers to visit destruction upon it. Their lust for 'more' took them further and further into the Abyss, and every time, upon their return, they brought plague and chaos to the elvhen people. But even before this chaos entered his world, the elvhen mage had grown disquieted with the state of his people. For in their desire for absolute control and power, his peers had enslaved the elvhen people, disguising servitude for worship and making demands of the elves that violated their individual rights to live freely and enjoy what life offered them."

A sudden burst of raucous laughter startled them both, and they peered over to the table closest to the fire. A group of farmers was trading stories with the inn keep, all rosy-faced from drink and mirth. Serilda smiled in their direction before redirecting her attention to Solas. Solas had once more taken on a far-off look, and it took longer for him to return his gaze to hers across the table. Serilda pointed to his drink and held up her own.

"Let's finish our drinks, then go upstairs." Solas raised a single eyebrow, and she laughed despite herself, "So you can finish your story without interruption from me or others. That is all."

Solas nodded, "That is most benevolent of you, Serilda."

"You're still an ass," she rolled her eyes and sipped at her ale. Without warning, she reached out and fluffed at the edge of his beard, "I thought you once told Varric that those of your people couldn't grow facial hair." She took another sip, "It looks good."

Solas' eyes gleamed with triumph, and she mentally kicked herself, "You still find me attractive then?" Had she been an animal, she would've growled warning, but as it was, she tightened her grip on her ale and glared. Solas chuckled and batted away her annoyance with a half-shrug as he answered, "I spoke in truth to Varric, but there is certain anonymity the accompanies a beard that I have found to be useful. It was not difficult to find a spell that lent itself to my efforts to remain unknown."

"Is the long hair also part of a spell, or is it yours in truth?"

"You wish to debate 'truth' with the reality of magic? I don't know if the inn has enough ale for that sort of conversation."

Serilda rolled her eyes, "I see the tendency towards sage-isms hasn't abated. Let's just finish our drinks, finish the story, then maybe if we're both still awake and keen on it, we can have that debate. Without the support of ale."

Solas chuckled but did as she bade, sipping at his ale even as she finished hers. She took to studying the other patrons of the inn to distract herself from the continued reality that she was sitting across from Solas. Even without a proper understanding of _how_ or even _why,_ her heart was starting to once more yearn for things with Solas, she'd spent so much time trying to reign into submission. Having him once more near enough to touch, to hear his voice and not just his voice spoken by a spirit, was playing havoc with her willpower. That and the three ales she'd had this evening.

"You've grown your hair longer," Solas' observation had Serilda looking back to him, "and have you always had that tattoo, or is that a new addition as well?" His look was mischievous as he referred to the modest-sized tattoo of a soaring griffin that was normally hidden from view, taking visual flight over the side of her ribs, with the tips of one of its wings reaching the edge of her left breast.

Serilda refused to be embarrassed and spoke matter-of-factly in return, "My sister is an artist and took to skin inking some years before I left. My skin was practice for her just the one time. Hurt like hell, and I almost didn't let her finish, but with such things as skin inking if you don't finish, you look even more the fool and a coward as well." She remembered then a conversation they'd had years ago regarding the Dalish tattoos and his 'theory' of what they meant. Only, knowing now who he was and how old he was, she knew it was not a 'theory' but was a fact. "Among my people, tattoos do not have the same meaning as the _vallaslin._ Some do not get tattoos at all, while others prefer to write the story of their exploits with ink in their flesh."

"And your chosen image? The griffin? Any particular reason?" Solas finished his ale and set aside the empty vessel.

Serilda shrugged, "They were once plentiful all around the Hunterhorns, and my people have maintained the stories of old when they were a common sight in the sky and then, after that, when the Wardens would ride them against the darkspawn. Over the years, the stories have been told of sightings in remote places, or the possibility of the mage wardens hiding away the last of the eggs in secret, to resurrect the griffins when the need is great." She shrugged again, "I've always liked the combination of noble strength in the creature itself and the continued hope of their return."

"Yes," Solas' smile turned soft and almost intimate, "I've come to realize just how strongly you cling to hope."

His words sent a tremor through her heart, and before she gave in, Serilda broke the shared moment by slapping her hands over the tops of her things, "Time to retreat upstairs."

She heard him snicker at her discomfort as she led the way from the inn's dining area to the stairs. The elf was still incorrigible, not that that should surprise her in the least. The room, when they arrived, seemed smaller now that she had Solas in tow. There was only a bed and a small chest at the foot of it where she'd stored her gear. After an awkward moment of hovering in the doorway, the both of them looking around the room as if a chair would spontaneously appear, Serilda sighed and moved towards the bed. She sat down and pulled off her boots, motioning for Solas to come in and close the door. Once he set his gear and staff by the door, she pointed to the foot of the bed even as she drew herself back to lean against the headboard of the frame. It was a modest-sized bed, and it was quite possible for them to both sit on it.

"You left off with the elvhen mage growing displeased with his fellow mage 'gods,'" Serilda looped her arms over her knees and drew them close to her chest, assuming a posture she'd once taken every night as a child as she listened to the elders tell stories, "what happened next?"

Solas slowly lowered himself on the bed, his body facing the wall adjacent, his hands clasping between his knees. He took a deep breath before resuming his tale.

"There was one another among his peers, whom he felt closest to, for she truly cared for their people and acted as a voice of reason in the growing chaos that surrounded his peers. They had worked as partners many times through the eons. Battling against the dark forces that threatened to rise from the depths, protecting their people from threats above and below, and once the enslavements began, they sought an end to the betrayal against their own kind, the branding of ownership upon their skin." Solas sighed out what sounded to be a prayer in his language, but Serilda couldn't catch it, "She was all that was good of their race, all that was worth saving."

Serilda knew enough from legend and the patches of conversations they'd had before to gather that it was Mythal of whom he spoke. She remained silent, though her curiosity itched to talk, figuring that Solas' drawn-out storytelling habits had not changed in the years they'd been parted. She was correct in her assumption when he resumed some moments later.

"The elvhen mage had been drawn away to aid those who wished to be free when it happened. The Mother of all that was great, the Protector of reason, was betrayed by her own consort and nearly consumed by the rest of her peers when she stood against their boundless greed. What of her survived was so reduced, so minuscule, that it escaped the elvhen mage's notice until many years later. The elvhen mage, upon returning to find this treacherous act committed, could no longer remain silent. Gathering together those he had helped free, the mage took the name Fen'Harel and led a rebellion against those who had killed Reason. Using the greatest of his magic, Fen'Harel locked his peers behind a Veil, unable to kill them outrightly, for their power was too great but sealed them away from the rest of the world in his hopes to protect his people from their wrath. Doing this drained the mage nearly to his death, and he entered the _uthenera_ , the waking sleep of his people, wandering the Fade for centuries as he sought to recover his strength again. For he wished to lead his people into a free and thriving future, one where they did not need to fear slavery or the abuse of power from those who called themselves gods."

Solas gave a mirthless laugh then as he repositioned himself on the bed, scooting back until his back was against the wall and his feet dangling off the edge.

"But fate had other plans for the mage and his people." Solas drew a hand over his face as he dropped his head against the wall, staring up at the ceiling. "Instead of freeing them, he condemned them to an even worse existence. For they soon forgot the truth of their past and compromised the grandeur of their culture for shadows and lies. They now knew mortality and were as severed from the land of spirits as the dwarves and the other encroaching races crossing the sea into their ancestral lands." Serilda knew he was referring to humans, but didn't feel slighted by the hint of anger she heard in his voice. She knew that the anger was pointed inward and not towards her. "The mage woke to find his people splintered and tossed to the corners of the known world, grasping for an identity, yet always missing the truth of their origins. The now ancient wonders of their people had been destroyed in his efforts to seal away the false gods, and his people could no longer touch the magic of the Fade as strongly. And in an ironic twist, the mage found himself to be the villain of their history instead of the savior, the name he'd taken whispered as threat and curse."

Solas fell silent then, his eyes falling closed. Serilda unlooped her arms and crossed her legs, staring silently at the elf. He'd removed his cloak upon entering her room and had at some point tucked his hair behind his ears. There was no light in the room, save for what moonlight managed to sneak through the small shaft of a window on the wall behind her, yet she could still see clearly the heavy regret that lay upon Solas' shoulders. She felt for him. She truly did, but even knowing more intricately the details of what had transpired before the Inquisition did not excuse his efforts in her mind. However, she remained silent, knowing that throwing additional condemnation at the elf would severe this time of confession.

"You said before that his arrogance and pride destroyed the elf," Solas opened his eyes and looked at her, "you would be correct. It was an arrogant belief that his power was greater, his tactical mind sharper, his cause for his people's returned empire more just, that led the elf to make grievous mistakes. He thought he could use the pride of yet another would-be god to tear down the Veil he'd created, yes unleashing chaos onto the world as his peers returned to wreak vengeance upon him, but also bringing back the hope of the elvhen people regaining their immortality, their connection to the Fade, and being restored to their place as rulers in this world." Solas shifted his weight until he leaned his shoulder against the wall instead of his back, facing Serilda fully with his legs drawn up in a similar nature as Serilda. "Before his slumber, he'd spent no time with other races, aside from the dwarves, and had no knowledge of them aside from their 'otherness' to his own kin. He had no respect for them, no love for them, especially because of these other races, namely humans, that his people lost their homelands and their dignity. Now walking among them, he continued to blame them for a part of his people's state, placing upon their shoulders much of the guilt he alone should've shouldered. He felt no remorse for the coming destruction of the world they knew or the reality that in loosing the Evanuris into Thedas again, all life would be altered and remade to glorify the would-be gods and their kind once more. He felt justified in this, even if his efforts brought about his own destruction. He felt he deserved that fate as payment for the centuries of subjugation and pain his people had gone through for his grave mistake."

Solas chuckled then, the sound just as mirthless as the one he'd shared before, "His ego blinded him to the fact that despite his power, his years of existence, his great knowledge gleaned from the spirits themselves in the Fade, he could not control events as they unfolded. He could not control the people of the unknown races, nor could he control his own people in their changed state." Solas shook his head, "He thought himself a god-like savior, knowing the best way to save his people from their current reality was through destroying the life they had created in his absence. He allowed that pride to blind him to the reality that it was that same prideful assumption that had led to their present state."

He leaned forward but did not reach for her as she thought he might. Instead, he folded his hands together and laid them on the bed between them, his elbows on his knees. Serilda hesitated a moment more before she mimicked his stance, feeling the need to show physically her desire for him to finish his tale despite the horrors held within it. For as he spoke of these things, she knew as well as he that his efforts both in the ancient times and more recently had caused the deaths of thousands of his people and just as many humans, dwarves, and Qunari.

"The mage shamelessly used those who considered themselves his allies to achieve his goal. He never intended upon seeing them as friends, of creatures worthy of respect, and even love." His eyes had fallen to the space of the bed between them, but at the last, they returned to her face, and she felt again the stirrings in her breast that threatened to betray her. "He was unprepared for that, having given up hope for forging such ties of friendship and intimacy with the betrayal of his people. Yet, despite the softening of his heart towards the races he'd once thought beneath his own, the mage did not relent in his efforts. Now wracked with new guilt that of knowing his friends would be destroyed if he triumphed, he found a new form of self-righteous pride to lay upon his shoulders as he drew closer to his goal. He betrayed his friends, and the one he knew could have been more, and nearly succeeded. But," Solas' smile, when she glimpsed it, was soft and true, "a strange thing happened to the elvhen mage."

"What happened?" She spoke without meaning to and quickly fell silent again, though her question made his smile widen.

"The mage met Hope." Solas bridged the gap between them and laid a light hand atop hers, "He thought never to meet such a spirit, not after so much wasted life and failure, yet through one he had betrayed, the mage came face-to-face with Hope." He took her hand in his and leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to the back of her knuckles before sitting back again, though keeping hold of her hand. "With the help of this spirit and secret meetings with the one he'd betrayed, the mage was confronted with an alternate reality. One where he failed in unleashing the Evanuris, and yet his people still recovered their place in the world through their own efforts without his arrogant assumption of knowing best how this must be done. One where he was reunited with the ones he had betrayed and was given a welcome by at least one, the one who could've been more. One where he had a new purpose, a simple yet noble purpose, that to heal the broken, protect the weak, and live the rest of his days with the one who could've been more."

Serilda's mouth dropped open. Not for the first time, she was robbed of breath and momentary rational thought. There was so much to take in, so much to process, and her head and heart hurt at the immensity of it all. Solas let go of her hand and sat up straight, a neutral expression on his face as if sensing her growing discomfort. Serilda scratched her fingers through her still-damp hair, having forgotten to plait it as had become her habit.

"Leliana told me you'd been dealt a mortal blow in the last battle," Serilda brought the tale back to reality, for in the end, despite having seen that alternate reality, Solas had stayed his original course and had been 'killed' for his efforts, "how did you survive?"

"Your earlier assumption was also correct, though I would not use the term 'abomination.' Hope found me as I lay dying in an isolated glade, and it told me of the last conversation you'd had with it." Serilda could barely remember what she'd told Hope the last she'd seen it. Something about Solas being a coward, perhaps. "And Hope reminded me of the reality I'd seen through it, asking me if I wanted to seek it out and pursue it now that my old life was ended."

Serilda took a deep breath and spoke as she let it out, "You obviously accepted." Solas nodded. "So, Hope possesses you, and you do not wish to corrupt it?" Solas nodded again. "What will happen if Hope leaves you?"

"I will die."

His answer was simple and to the point, and she appreciated that. Now that the long history was concluded, they could get to the details of present decisions.

"How did you find me? Do you still have a network of spies?"

Solas shook his head, "Fen'Harel died and took with his death his network of spies and double-dealing. Only Solas remains." Solas laid a hand over his chest and tipped his head in an almost formal bow, "I was Solas before I was Fen'Harel, and Hope has given me the chance to be Solas once more. But to answer your question, once I grew accustomed to living with Hope and felt enough time had passed to allow for my open travels, though in obvious disguise, I made my way to the farm you spoke of." Serilda's eyes widened as the knowledge of his having been close by to her since she'd left settled. "I was pleased to see them thriving," he referred to Ataashi and Cullen, "and am proud of their work with those recovering from lyrium addiction and war maimings. I saw evidence of Dagna's work in Ataashi's mechanical arm," Serilda nodded, and Solas' smile grew, "it is good that old friendships still live on."

"So," Serilda scratched the side of her head, "you've been following me since then?" Solas nodded. "What made you decide to reveal yourself now?"

"You are about to cross over into the Tirashan region, and if I'm not mistaken in my memory, your home is at the foot of one of the Hunterhorn mountains," Serilda nodded in confirmation, "I wanted to take the time to explain things to you now so you could choose where I would go next."

Serilda frowned, "I choose?"

"Yes, do I travel with you, or do I disappear into the wilds." He again spoke so calmly of such vital matters that it left Serilda blinking in confusion and rendered mute. "You decide that for with a word, I will remain, or I will depart. I have no intention of pressing upon you anything aside from that decision."

Serilda sighed, "That's a strong decision to make, Solas." He nodded. "I don't think I can make it just yet, in all honesty. You've given me a lot to think about, and there's still so much I don't understand."

"Ask, and I will do my best to answer." His hands fidgeted as if he were resisting the urge to touch her again.

"It isn't just questions I have of you, but of myself as well." Serilda pressed a hand to the side of her head. "I think we should call it a night and talk more tomorrow."

"Very well," Solas stood and turned to gather his gear from the floor without further protest.

"Where are you going?" she asked once he'd pulled the pack onto one shoulder and made to take hold of his staff.

Solas looked askance at her, "To bed down in the stables. I did not purchase a room for the night."

The thought of his leaving brought a strange fear to Serilda, as if the moment he walked out of the room, she'd never see again and never get to answer the unvoiced questions that lay between them still. It was this fear that had her pulling the blanket off the bed and tossing it in his direction. There was always a top sheet she could curl under, and she could pull some of her layers out from her gear stored in the chest at the foot of the bed. Solas caught the blanket and eyed it as if she'd thrown a nug at him instead of a blanket.

"If you're okay with the idea, I'd rather you stayed here." She pointed to the floor beside the bed, "Not sure if it will be any more or less comfortable than straw, but at least it is warmer."

Solas smirked as he replaced his gear and turned to face her, "You wish me to remain with you?"

"That much is obvious, you oaf, since you're holding my blanket." Serilda pushed aside the sheet and wiggled her way underneath. "I won't be giving you the pillow, though."

He laughed as he pulled out his bedroll from his pack and laid it on the floor, pulling out a bundle of clothes next to situate as a makeshift pillow.

"I am unworthy of such a sacrifice, Serilda."

Serilda smiled but quickly turned to face the wall so he couldn't see it, "Oh hush, and go to sleep, Solas."

"As you wish, my lady."

Serilda smiled again at both his words and at the return of hope to the center of her heart.


	6. Chapter 6

The knock startled him out of his concentration. He stood, setting aside his pallet of paints, and walked as if in a daze to the door. His hand strangely trembled as he pulled the door open. There she stood, damp from the rain outside. His heart tore in two as she stared at him in silence. She was leaning heavily against his doorpost with her head bowed, wisps of her honeyed hair pressed damply against her skin.

He said nothing; in fact, he didn't move. He feared those actions would end this meeting, scaring her away to some other part of the Fade. Why was she HERE of all places? Did she realize she was here with him? For it was Serilda and not just a spirit in her guise. Solas could distinguish between the two. Braving the moment despite his trepidation, he carefully reached forward, gently touching his fingertips to the skin on her wrist. She jerked upright, drawing her hand against her chest and cradling it, her chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. Solas dropped his arm but pushed the door further open, backing away in a silent invitation for her to follow. It surprised him when she did more than just follow.

Instead of merely stumbling inside and shutting the door, she suddenly peered at him through the veil of hair. Her gaze was bright and determined and caused his heart to jerk in awareness. Gone was her earlier hesitation then, as she dropped her hand and strode forward with confidence. Curious, he backed away and allowed his curiosity to show itself in expression as he watched her nudge the door shut with her foot as she pushed past it.

She continued to advance and Solas, still fascinated by this moment, continued to retreat. Serilda danced them across the room until his back was against the wall. Instead of stopping, she continued forward until the tips of her shoes were touching his bare toes. If she took a deep breath, their chests would brush. If she leaned forward only a hair, their noses would touch. What in the world was going on inside that head of hers? He knew she could Fade walk and was left to wonder if this was something she was controlling or if she had fallen out of practice, and this was instead her dream living out in his crafted corner of the Fade.

She suddenly reached forward, and he stiffened when her fingertips traced along his collarbone. It had been so many years since someone had initiated a touch like this. Solas gripped his hands into fists by his sides to keep from grabbing hold of her. Be she in control of her dream or not, he did not wish to startle her or push her too far too fast. She was young by comparison, and he had every reason to take his time with her. Her fingers were cold, but Solas felt his skin flush with warmth in the wake of her touch. She stood up straighter and tipped her head to stare at him more fully.

She held both hands out then, palms just shy of pressing against his tunic, and moved them in the space just above his body. Up and over his shoulders, down his upper arms to his wrists, then back up again, and then down over his chest and over the plans of his stomach. Everywhere she moved her hands, he felt her warmth even if she wasn't directly touching him, and again he had to clench and unclench his fists to keep himself from crumping against her in his desire to be closer still. This was torture, but it was the sweetest torture and one that he would gladly accept for as long as she offered it.

One of her hands came forward to grab hold of his belt. The fierceness of the move made Solas suck in his breath through his teeth. He looked from her face down to where she clung to the leather holding his tunic together. Her other hand came up to rest on the wall beside his shoulder, and she leaned closer.

His breath caught in his throat as she moved down to brush the tip of her nose against the junction of his neck and shoulder, audibly breathing in his scent. In the Fade, the sense of smell was muted, but this didn't stop her from nuzzling her face against his skin, as a cat might against its owner. The touch was soft, almost too faint to detect, but Solas knew he didn't imagine her lips brushing over the pulse in his neck. He dug her fingers into his palms to keep from reaching for her. The hand on his belt shifted to rest on his hip while her hand on the wall also moved to once more trace light touches over his collarbone. Then her fingers moved to wrap around his neck and took a firmer grip. She used her grip to tilt his head sideways. Solas was far too curious and enjoying this exchange for whatever it was, far too much to stop her or seek to influence her. She would dictate what happened next.

He refused to close his eyes out of pleasure when he felt her lips once more lightly brush over his pulse as she traveled up his neck to his ear, her lips never leaving contact from his skin. He couldn't help the moan that betrayed his throat when her tongue lightly traced the contours of his ear before tugging the fleshier lobe between her lips. His chest leaned against hers, and he felt her breath mingling with his when his face turned so that his cheek rested against hers, his lips parallel with hers, though not touching…yet.

He dared to reach out and rested a hand on her shoulder, his fingers splaying out, only the tip of his thumb brushing against the skin of her neck. They shared breath, space, heartbeat at that moment. Solas dared further and moved his other hand to rest on her hip, gently squeezing. This seemed to make something inside Serilda snap. With a moan, suddenly, her lips were against his, her tongue driving deep inside his mouth, as she pressed her body fully against his. She wantonly rubbed herself against him, inviting his touch, and he held back no longer. His arms snaked around her waist, with her arms coming to rest on his shoulders for support as he turned and slightly dipped her over his arm. He kissed her as if his life depended on it, and she mirrored his desperation with one of her own.

One of his hands came up to cup her breast. His hand weighed the weight of it, his fingers splaying out and squeezing before his hand moved on to her neck to cup her head. By this time, he'd turned, and it was she who had her back to the wall, with his hips maintaining pressure against hers. She clung to him as he'd barely allowed himself to dream she ever would. And he held her as if at any moment she would disappear out of his life forever.

Even though he desired so much more and would've gladly pursued it, he felt the moment Serilda withdrew. She didn't push him away in rejection, but it seemed her ardor cooled. She was becoming more cognizant of the dream or waking up in reality. Solas was reluctant to relinquish his hold entirely. Instead, he pulled back and stared at her, watching a kaleidoscope of emotions dancing in her eyes and face. She still held on to him, but her grip was loosening, and Solas knew it was time. He let go of her entirely and waited until she dropped her arms from his shoulders before he stepped back. Her lips were swollen from their kisses, her skin still flushed with desire. Solas reached out and brushed the back of his knuckles against her cheek.

" _Emma lath,"_ Solas leaned forward and pressed another kiss to her temple, smoothing her hair away from her face, " _ma enasal_ ," he took hold of both her hands and kissed the back of each other in turn, " _Ar lath ma_ , Serilda."

Serilda squeezed his hands, then let go. With one last studious glance, she walked past him, opened the door, and left. Solas laid both hands on the wall where she'd been leaning, imagining he could still feel the warmth of her body absorbed in the wood. But he couldn't. And if she was waking up and leaving the Fade, then that meant he should as well. Solas sighed before standing straight again. He closed his eyes and opened them again to see the inn's attic roof over his head. The light's quality denoted early morning hours, and the sounds coming from below told him that even the innkeeper's family was just getting started on the day.

Solas sat up and looked over towards Serilda. She slept on, half on her stomach, one of her arms sprawled on the bed with her fingers close to the edge of the mattress. Solas smiled and allowed himself the briefest touch of his fingers brushing over hers. She shifted in her sleep but didn't retreat, and it looked as if a smile touched the edges of her lips. Satisfied that for the moment, he wouldn't have to explain his actions in the Fade nor dance around it in conversation either, Solas laid back down and took to meditation. He knew it would not be long before Serilda woke up wanting more answers, and he would have to be ready to give them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elvhen terms
> 
> · Emma lath = my love
> 
> · Ma Enasal = my joy in triumph over loss
> 
> · Ar lath ma = I love you


End file.
